Red Equals?
by tFantasyFan
Summary: No longer a one-shot. The results of reading internet rants and imbibing less coffee than is normal: yes, a collection of crack-fics.
1. Red Equals?

_I don't even want to KNOW how my brain got so royally screwed up. But it is, so you'll have to face the almighty wrath of my weirdness dumping grounds. Mentions (non-specific) of things of the sexual-slash nature. If you think the rating should be upped, tell me so. I may end up adding other, non-related pieces to this._

_Disclaimer: Disclaimed._

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Donatello emerged from one of his many hermit-resembling periods of scientific isolation as he would on any other occasion: caffeine-deprived, half-dead, and on the verge of some kind of world-changing breakthrough that had been temporarily abandoned in favor of the proverbial beverage savior.

Priorities, after all, were for those fools who slept regularly. Coffee first, fate of millions later.

Having obtained his objective, the genius suddenly paused mid-step, glancing around the living room. Michelangelo was sitting idly on the couch, looking bored out of his mind and picking at the corner of a throw pillow. There didn't appear to be signs of anyone else. Which wasn't all that unusual, on any given day.

Of course, they were supposed to be expecting April and Casey to have stopped by some hours ago. Which usually meant everyone would be in the same general area, being friendly and entertaining and the like. Something didn't ring right. Frowning, Donatello rearranged his priorities once more.

Coffee first, problem solving, THEN the fate of millions.

"Aren't April and Casey supposed to be here by now?" He asked, sitting next to his brother and opting to get straight to the point. Mikey perked up at the sudden attention from something living, kicking his feet in the air and tilting his head to the side.

"Dude, where have you been? They called last night, remember? 'Flight's gonna be late, guys. We'll see you Thursday," he stated in a crudely executed imitation of their female friend's voice. Donnie cocked an eye ridge.

"I've been sealed in the lab for the past three days, Michelangelo. Not much time to field calls in there."

"Psh, whatever."

"Isn't it time for Master Splinter's stories?"

"Well when Ape and Case called and told us they'd be coming Thursday instead of today, Master Splinter decided it was a good time to 'Find Inner Peace' or something: so he took off."

"Ah. I'll just leave you to your…fighting robots, then." As he stood and turned to make for the lab, however, Mikey made a surprisingly high-pitched whine and hurled himself at Donatello's ankles.

"Aw, come on, Donnie, hang for a while! I'm, like, so bored it isn't even fun anymore!"

"I'm really busy, Mike. Why don't you just hang around with somebody else?"

"I _can't! _Casey and April and even Master Splinter are gone and Leo's in the dojo raping Raph-" It was at this point that the hyperactive turtle was sprayed with a considerable amount of ingested coffee.

"He's WHAT?" Michelangelo sighed, a little annoyed, and tugged him towards the dojo doors.

"See for yourself!" He burst out, sliding the door open a crack. Donatello glanced in, quickly turning around and beginning to pace with wide eyes and a blushing face.

"But- when did-? HOW?"

"Dude, if _that _didn't get the 'how' across clearly enough, we might need to check your IQ again." When Donnie didn't immediately respond, the youngest sighed yet again.

_I'm always the one that has to explain this stuff. _

"See, it's like this. When two mutated humanoid turtles love each other VEEEEERY much- or, uh, in this case- when one mutated humanoid turtle has the hots for another mutated humanoid turtle but the other turtle doesn't like him _like that-_"

"WHAT IS THIS PLACE? WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THE REAL MIKEY? WHERE IS MY REAL FAMILY?" Donatello screamed, cutting him off and shaking him by the shoulders roughly.

"What are you TALKING about?" Mikey shouted, now ensnared in an effective mixture of fear and confusion.

"THAT ISN'T HOW IT WORKS! IT GOES AGAINST EVERYTHING WE'VE BEEN TAUGHT TO BELIEVE!"

Michelangelo stared at his brother with wide eyes, mouth flapping open and closed in an attempt to actually say something. It took a few long moments, but he finally pulled together the semblance of something vaguely like outrage.

"SAY WHAT YOU WILL, DONATELLO, BUT _I _BELIEVE THAT THINGS ARE WHAT THEY ARE! LOVE CONQUERS ALL!" Donnie shook him roughly once more, fingers gripping his arms painfully tightly.

"THAT ISN'T THE POINT! THIS ISN'T HOW IT WORKS! LEO DOESN'T RAPE RAPH, _RAPH _RAPES _LEO!_ DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING OF HOW THE WORLD WORKS?"

"I- You- _what?_" This intelligent response only elicited another insistent shake, the force of which made the younger turtle lightheaded.

"RED IS RAPE! _RAPH _EQUALS RAPE! WE ARE ALL INFERIOR IN OUR MASCULINITY BEFORE THE RAW POWER THAT IS RAPHAEL'S RAPING PROWESS!"

With his point made, the genius ran back into his laboratory, leaving his younger brother on the ground in a state of considerable confusion as he attempted to discover which device had transported him into such a hellish and nonsensical dimension. Still blinking, Mikey stumbled into the bathroom to throw up and try to determine the seriousness of his brain damage.

Several unfinished projects hit the lab floor and Donatello scavenged for a piece of paper to make his plans on.

_Leo raping Raph_…He shuddered, attempted to get rid of the image scorched into his memory, and got to work.

An almost feeble cry for help drifted through the slightly open dojo door. It was quickly stifled and ignored.

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_0-o You can thank Ivy for her 'Red equals rape' rant and for this, the subsequent fic._


	2. Cereal: Unlikely Events

_Right. Couldn't stay away from it, so help me. So I bring another piece into the mold._

_Disclaimer: I acknowledge defeat._

_Words: roughly 257._

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_**Piece Two: Unlikely Events**_

His day hadn't started out so badly, considering the run of luck he'd been subjected to in the past. Decent sleep, decent practice, and he hadn't attempted to murder one of his brothers.

Unusual, apparently, where Raphael was concerned.

As he reached for a box of cereal and was pondering this turn of events, however, the reason for his otherwise decent luck became all too clear:

His cereal box was empty. The rest of the family, upon realizing it, immediately fled the vicinity. Dark clouds loomed overhead, flashing with menacing lightning and raising hairs both real and imaginary. Screams from the mouths of tortured orphans in the pits of hell filled the air and fire from the earth's core flared upward. Michelangelo fainted and had to be carried away from the scene as the realization of cereal-less-ness caught up to the red-banded turtle.

Raphael observed his surroundings with a raised brow, not intimidated in the slightest by these horrific events. With a series of blinks, he shrugged, threw the box away, and grabbed a toaster pastry instead.

The demonic howls ceased. The fire was quenched. His family glanced around warily, wondering what the consequences of such utterly normal and non-violent behavior would be.

**July 2, 1937 -- Over the Nukumanu Islands**

Amelia Earhart was navigating her plane towards Howland Island- the next stop on her flight around the globe. A rift formed in the space-time continuum, opening a portal that proceeded to swallow the plane without a second's pause.

Amelia was never seen or heard from again.

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_You see what can be accomplished by the awesome power of my stupidity?_


	3. It's Just Sad Now, Dude

_Just...Dude, I have no excuses that don't involve crack-bears. Warning, for those inclined: lots of language, mentions of sex (yeah I know, what's up with that?) and all-around utter nonsensical happenings._

_Disclaimer: Pffft, any chances I had of owning them vanished when I popped this one out XD_

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All was relatively quiet in the Hamato household that morning- perhaps even too quiet to be natural. One could not say whether the sun shone above or the birds chirped as they flew, mostly due to the fact that the Hamato clan lived in the dank and damp sewers.

It was just something that they had gotten used to with time, much like ancient Hebrew slaves had become accustomed to serving the Egyptians. Not necessarily a good thing, but damn if they were going to try to change it right then and there.

Master Splinter had retired to his chambers to meditate with his thumb up his ass, thereby blatantly avoiding any kind of involvement with his sons' lives, approximately three years prior; if anyone was starting to get concerned, they surely didn't let it show. As a matter of fact, Raphael, Michelangelo and Donatello sat about the living room attending to business as usual- watching television, plotting world domination and lusting after strange people, places and inanimate objects, in no particular or respective order.

And other than the occasional grunt, dripping of slobber and ridiculously long and complicated sentence about scientific facts, they generally avoided interacting with each other as well. All in all, it was a typical day.

At least, they _had _been attending to business as usual on a typical day. Until the normal rhythm of their lives was shattered by none other than Leonardo who, without warning, had run into the room wearing a sombrero, jumped on the coffee table and started doing the Macarena to a tune only he could hear.

This did not fail to escape their notice, but for a moment they merely regarded him with raised brows. Donatello tried to recall whether his brother had obtained a head injury of any significance within the last few days. Raphael wondered what song to Leonardo's taste could have possibly been up-tempo enough to bring about a dance craze- the sombrero, he figured, was some kind of clue. Michelangelo clapped appreciatively for his eldest brother's dancing prowess.

The Macarena soon dissolved into a series of rather concerning flailing motions interspersed with the occasional pelvic thrust, which further deteriorated into the vague semblance of a one-man tango, at which point Leonardo shouted:

"Fuck ninjitsu! I want to salsa dance!"

The others, needless to say, were utterly shocked.

"I am utterly shocked," Donatello said monotonously. "Amazed, alarmed, surprised, baffled, confused, appalled, thunderstruck and other such synonyms. This is such out of character behavior."

"Like, cowabunga, dude," Michelangelo intoned gravely. His genius brother was nearly brought to tears by the sheer profoundness of such a statement, and openly said so.

"Dude," Michelangelo said again.

"Damn, what the fuck are we supposed to fucking do about this," Raphael read, squinting at his script. "It is pissing me the fuck off- shit, damn, ass, bastard and other such swear words." He glanced back down at the paper. "Oh. I, uh, said that angrily."

"Yes. What are we supposed to do?" Donatello asked, very obviously interested in the issue at hand and not at all staring at the documentary on the television. "'Do' referring to the taking of action, making a choice, executing a plan, determining the source of the problem, and other such synonyms."

"Dude," Michelangelo said again, conveying that he, too, was equally concerned and confused. Donatello and Raphael nodded, clearly appreciative of his incredible ability with the spoken word.

"DO?" Leonardo shouted, leaping off of the table and making several failed efforts to do the worm. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DANCE, MY BRETHEREN!"

Upon noticing that his shell made doing the worm virtually impossible, he stood back up and began the long-respected tradition of River dancing. Clearly misinterpreting the origin of such a dance, he threw out his arms dramatically and cried "EL BAILE, LOS HERMANOS! EL BAILE!"

The sombrero was excitedly flung into the arms of Leonardo's youngest brother, followed rather quickly by the remainder of the little equipment that they dubbed clothing. He caught one kneepad, tossed both elbow pads to Raphael and the remaining kneepad to Donatello.

"Like, dude," Michelangelo said in his surprise.

"Shit, damn, fuck and other such swears," Raphael said in agreement, tossing his now-memorized script over his shoulder.

"Affirmative, indeed, yes, agreed, and other such synonyms," Donatello voiced, stating rather than saying because that was simply what geniuses such as he did.

Leonardo ceased dancing momentarily and scowled at them. "You caught the sombrero." He said, pointing ominously at Michelangelo and ignoring the lightning flashing behind him. "You. Dance. _Now_."

"Dude," Michelangelo said again.

"Your beautiful ballads shall not sway me!" Leonardo shouted passionately, flinging out his other arm in an invitation. "I COMMAND YOU TO DANCE! TURN YOUR BACK ON THIS LIFE OF MINDLESS VIOLENCE, LITTLE BROTHER, AND LET YOUR FEET CONVEY WHAT LIES WITHIN!"

Michelangelo began to sob at the emotion of the very loud statement because of his incredible empathic abilities. "Cowabunga, dude," he wailed, putting on the sombrero and joining Leonardo in a dance somewhat resembling the waltz.

Michelangelo's poetic abilities stunned his remaining brothers with the strength and wisdom held within his heart and they, too, leapt to their feet. Of course, four turtles do not a waltz make- so they had to settle for a very emotional chorus line. This soon morphed into a conga line of sorts which traveled the border of the living room, bursting with love.

"Love! Affection!" Donatello shouted movingly from his third-to-last place in line. "Caring, fondness, devotion, passion, attachment and other such synonyms!"

"DANCE, MY BROTHERS!" Leonardo screamed to the heavens, snatching his sombrero back in order to properly lead them in their new life's passion.

"Dude!" Michelangelo cried, still sobbing.

"RAPE!" Raphael called inexplicably. He then proceeded to bring his brothers to the ground in a lust-ridden frenzy. "SEX!" He shouted, feeling the need to more accurately detail what was going to happen.

Donatello was not to be outdone, however. "Intercourse, relations, mating, coitus, copulation and other such synonyms!"

"Dude," Michelangelo said again, expressing the love and approval he had of the situation.

Leonardo was silent for a few minutes, then: "…what kind of dance IS this?"

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_See? I briefly debated putting this out as a standalone one-shot, as it doesn't fit my crack-drabble motif, but in the end I was like 'nahhhh.' Oh, and I damn line breaks to an eternity of suffering._


End file.
